


Those moments after the Fall

by justinmymindpalace



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst that really is Moftiss worthy, Emotional, Happy Ending?, Hurt, John Watson - Freeform, OR IS IT, Unknown Love, Unrequited Love, major angst, trigger - Freeform, trigger warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-23
Updated: 2017-02-23
Packaged: 2018-09-26 12:49:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9897470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justinmymindpalace/pseuds/justinmymindpalace
Summary: Angsty drabble about how John copes in the aftermath of losing his Sherlock. So say.There is a feelsy ending though which I hope makes up for all the angst.Let me know what you think please, have a good day!





	

After the Fall, seeing his best friend die, John had to go back to Baker Street alone. Dumbstruck from shock as he was gently told to go home. Walking back into that flat which holds cherished moments and finding himself sitting in his chair, disbelieving what has just happened. Talking inanely for a while to the empty chair opposite him, little things like “Want a cup of tea? Shall we watch something on the tele? What did you think of my new blog post? Any new emails of cases? What shall we have for tea? Stop doing that experiment, the fumes will ruin the carpet.”

Stop it.

His madman’s chair. Climbing over to sit in it, he ran his fingers over the leather in little circles with and later putting his head in his hands, before letting out choked sobs and shaking with the force of his tears. No one to comfort him.  
He picked up his phone to text Mike typing out slowly ‘He’s gone -JW’ but saved it to his drafts. Not now.

It didn’t happen.  
It happened.

Crawling up to bed when it’s gone 2am, with the dregs of some red wine in hand, he walked past Sherlock’s room and let another tear drop. Clenching the door frame. Anger. How could he do this to him?

He walked over to Sherlock’s bed, still with the faint compression into the mattress of his body's outline from just this morning. He’d slept last night. For once.  
He picks up Sherlock’s pillow, sniffs it, then begins telling himself he’s gone crazy.

Almost placing it down, before pulling it tight to his chest and taking it upstairs to bed with him.

Pulling open his drawer, his gun.  
The trigger just lying there. Ready.  
Waiting.  
________________________  
If John is found sitting on Sherlock’s bed, talking to him as though he’s /really/ there before he goes out to do some shopping or sometimes he’s curled up on top of the sheets in the morning, Mrs Hudson doesn’t comment on it.  
Sometimes she finds him facing away from the door (just like how Sherlock would sleep on his right side, even if it would give hell to John’s left shoulder in what could have been formed the perfect big spoon position for his gangly legged detective, just if) with one of Sherlock’s pillows clutched to his chest.  
Absolutely silent.

The moment hits when he realises he needs to move out to move on, the next day the removal vans come to take away his stuff. Some of his disloyal guilt for now leaving the flat bubbles up in force just as he locks the door to their flat for the last time.  
Some of their memories will linger there with the adrenaline and laughter they shared. The damages from experiments seem inconsequential now. Quirky.  
So,  
        _him._

He misses them.

The unspoken words though he will carry with him. Alone.

_I should have told him._

He says goodbye to Mrs Hudson, trying to smile as she says ‘keep in touch’ and he wishes her well.  
She dabs at her eyes when she sees John mightily holding back any tears in vain. Ever the stoic soldier.  
Hi biting at his lower lip and his voice breaking as he turns to leave are unmissable though. He clears his throat and raises his chin.  
He makes a slightly unstable hobble as he unconsciously shifts his weight to his good leg from as he walks out onto the pavement,  
left, right, left, right, left, right.

Stop.  
Stop?  
He pauses before he climbs into the black cab in front of him and once inside, looks up at the familiar entrance to 221b from his cab, as the small removal van takes off ahead. He didn’t have much. Sherlock was his everything.  
Then he looks up to the window with wide eyes now that Mrs Hudson has gone back inside to her home.  
Hoping to catch a glimpse of his detective. He closes his eyes and just _wishes_.

Don’t be dead.

  
He opens his eyes

 

 

 

    and blinks

 

 

He doesn’t appear at the window.

The taxi takes off with ease and he fiddles with his bag before picking up the book he has carefully placed inside. One of Sherlock’s annotated chemistry books. It still has the well-thumbed menu of their favourite Thai takeaway inside. He’ll read this book someday.  
He laughs a little as he sees an annotation on the same page made in fountain pen (pretentious git, of course he used a fountain pen once).  
It simply reads ‘Wrong!’.  
_________________

Even after moving into his new abode (it will never be his home) he ensures that he keeps his key to 221b in his top left pocket. He always wears shirts with pockets under his jumpers now if he can help it.

It’s the closest position to his heart and no one will ever know.


End file.
